


We Agreed, No More Secrets

by SherlocksSister



Series: Fixes for Four [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, But that's all I'm saying, But then we knew that, Cliffhangers, Codes & Ciphers, Confessions, Demisexual Sherlock, Feelings, First Kiss, Fix-It, Gay Sherlock, Irene really is a lesbian, Irene's text to Sherlock, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Horndog, Light BDSM, M/M, Posh boy, Rosie is a great sleeper, Sherlock does not need Irene to complete him as a human being, Sherlock holds John accountable for that beating, Which can make tagging tricky, bit of rough, or more likely, post-s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-23 22:05:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9681020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/pseuds/SherlocksSister
Summary: John and Rosie are living back at Baker Street when Irene texts again. This time, they have a proper conversation about the nature of the relationship between Irene and Sherlock and why she texts him. Truths are shared.





	1. PB and DBoR

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexxphoenix42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/gifts).



> For those who don't know her, Alexxphoenix42 is a huge promoter of fanfic on Tumblr, having become the go-to person for recommendations. Having recently heard her interviewed on the Three Patch Podcast, I realised just how much time she puts into this. I asked her if there were any favourite things she would like seen written more about and this story is the result of one of her prompts. I won't say too much more at this point or it will spoil a cliffhanger!  
> My love and thanks to my beta Breath4Soul. She's a gift and makes me a much better writer. Oh, and she's officially Queen of the Commas.

In the end, John is exactly right. Irene Adler is Sherlock’s best hope of ever having a fulfilling relationship.

 

 

Knees creaking, John lowers himself into his chair with a sigh of relief. The fire is lit and the new curtains are drawn. He can’t believe It has only been eleven weeks since John and Rosie moved into Baker Street. It already feels like home again, wrapping John in that familiar, comforting cocoon he has always felt there. He had missed this chair. He watches Sherlock opposite him, long fingers animatedly flicking and tapping at his phone, and contemplates making tea.

“All settled?” Sherlock asks, not looking up.

“Yeah. For the time being anyway. Think she’s worn herself - “ 

_ ‘Ahhhhhhhh’ _ .

John raises an eyebrow at the erotic text alert, then frowns as Sherlock ignores it and places the phone face down on his thigh. 

“Aren’t you going to answer that?”

“I told you, I try not to. Not always successfully, she can be - “ he considers his words, “persistent.”

John snorts in amusement. “Yeah, well, she’s a woman who knows what she wants. And what she wants, mate, is  _ you _ .” 

As if to reinforce his point, the phone lights up and sighs again.

“Go on, answer her. I meant exactly what I said. We all have to grab our chances where we can and a relationship would be good for you.”

“Whilst I believe you have grounds for your assertion, John, may I, yet again, remind you I have my reasons for not wishing to -” 

Sherlock is interrupted once more by the erotic groan and  he rolls his eyes. He fervently wishes Irene would stop. She has maintained her campaign of attrition for five years now and Sherlock has moved from being intrigued by it, through amusement and now just finds it annoying and pointless. As he has repeatedly told her. He would also much prefer not to have this conversation with John. 

“Tea?” Sherlock starts to rise from his chair, the offending phone sliding off his leg onto the chair.

“Sherlock, don’t do that. Don’t try to distract me. We agreed, no more secrets; you, me and Mycroft.”

Sherlock sinks back into his chair with a sigh and grimaces. Yes, he had agreed to the no-secret-keeping thing. Mostly, though, he had meant Mycroft not keeping secrets from him. There are a few things he would much prefer to keep to himself and his conversations with Irene absolutely fall into that category.

“Why don’t you want to answer her? She likes you, you like her. What’s the problem? Take a chance, Sherlock. That’s what we all have to do. None of us know if it will work out but we take a leap of faith in the hope that, at the very least, we might have a bit of fun. Anything else is a bonus.”

Sherlock presses his lips together and studies John through his lashes. He is rapidly losing patience with this conversation. How is he ever going to be able to explain this? How is he going to persuade John to let the matter drop? This is fruitless and becoming hurtful. Sherlock is derailed slightly by the fact that he has allowed himself to acknowledge this fact. The events of the last few months really have taken their toll on him.

“As always, John, you see, but you do not observe.” Sherlock’s hurt takes refuge in insult and sharpness.

John hesitates for just a fraction of a second. Losing Mary has changed him; life is too damn short and cruel. Not speaking the truth has done nothing but bring him,  _ them _ , pain and now he has the courage to do exactly that, safe in the acceptance there is nothing he can do to drive Sherlock away. John accepts his own chances of love have passed but he knows he can push Sherlock. He needs Sherlock to be happy, to have love. God knows, the man deserves it. 

John refuses to stand by and allow Sherlock to deny his heart again. For the first time ever, they can talk about this and John is determined not to let this opportunity pass. 

“What I  _ observe _ , Sherlock Holmes, is a man brave enough to throw himself off a roof but too scared to risk opening his heart to someone who cares for him.” John snipes back. 

If only he knew. Sherlock makes a show of ignoring John and storms into the kitchen. Angrily filling the kettle, he closes his eyes and rests his forehead on the kitchen cupboard. This is not going well.

Grabbing his chance, John stretches over and takes up the phone from Sherlock’s chair. “Right, then. If you won’t answer her, I will.”

Sherlock freezes. Shit. What had her last message been? He is evaluating several different courses of action ranging from grabbing his Belstaff and leaving, to yelling at John in the hope of waking Rosie, when John begins to read out the latest text.

**Hope PB and his DBoR are enjoying a cosy night in**

John frowns, trying to make sense of the message. When nothing leaps to mind, he scrolls back to the previous two texts. The first reads:

**All settled back at home. Exhausting flight**

The second:

**Let’s have lunch. Heard from Kate you’ve made progress ❤**

John is stumped. He had been expecting suggestive comments, lewd plans, maybe even a revealing photo or two. Not travel updates.

“What does she mean, you’ve made progress? And what the hell do PB and DBoR mean? And who is Kate?”

Tea unmade, Sherlock charges back into the living room and snatches his phone.

“For God’s sake, John, you idiot. You’ve met Kate. Irene doesn’t care for me. Well, not in the way you’re suggesting. She’s  _ gay _ , remember? She told you so herself. Irene Adler is in a long-term, committed relationship. With. A. Woman. With Kate. She  _ does not _ want to have sexual relations with me!”

Deflated, John slumps back in his chair. Confusion gives way to embarrassment. He should never have invaded Sherlock’s privacy like that. For five years he has been listening to that bloody sound; that suggestive, sexy, dammit down right rude, text alert and leapt to conclusions. Wrong ones, apparently. He hated that sound. It made him-, made him- , what exactly? Shocked? No. Offended? No. Jealous? Ummmm. Best not to poke around too much in that one.

“So you are just, what? Friends?”

“Yes, John. Just friends.”

“Then why that bloody sound?”

Sherlock looks sheepish. “She programmed my phone.” He waves a hand dismissively.

“Well, why didn’t you unprogramme it? Oh, wait.” John gives a tight smile. “You tried.” 

“It’s locked in. It’s her idea of a joke. Apparently, she ‘knows a man and knows what he likes’. He taught her how to do it. Irrelevant and childish.”

“What do PB and DBoR mean?”

“It’s code.”

“I gathered that, genius. For what?”

Sherlock sighs. For what, indeed? If he tells John, he will have to explain everything; Irene’s unrelenting campaign, her conviction that it will all work out for the best. Sherlock does not share her belief and, now that things are finally settling down again, the very last thing he wants to do is rock the boat. No, best to leave things the way they are.

He is just about to make up a convenient lie when the phone releases its naughty exhalation once more. John jumps. They both stare at the phone in Sherlock’s hand.

**It’s time to tell him, Sherlock**

John’s eyes darken as he stares at Sherlock. He really doesn’t need any more surprises. Sherlock had promised. No more secrets.

“Tell me what, Sherlock?”


	2. Actions Speak Louder than Codes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is going to kill Irene Adler. Which is infuriating, because he had gone to such terrible trouble to save her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines Day! Thank you for your lovely response to Chapter 1. This is a story that could take Sherlock in a number of directions (none of which are him being het) and, in this story at least, I have chosen for him to be be gay/demisexual. I may well explore the possibility of him being asexual in another telling. There are probably writers better placed than I am to do so and would love to read your own versions.

He is going to kill Irene Adler. Which is infuriating, because he had gone to such terrible trouble to save her. 

And where is Rosie when he needs her? Now would be the perfect time to wake up in need of a bottle instead of three fifty-seven in the morning. Mrs. Hudson can’t even be relied on to appear at the door, yoo-hooing with a plate of scones and returning his handcuffs. He really must get her a pair of her own.

No, it would appear he is on his own in facing John and it would seem now is the moment to tell him, finally tell him, the truth. Because lying isn’t an option anymore. Pretending not to understand, creating a distraction or simply avoiding the situation just isn't  _ them _ anymore.

Somewhere, John’s own phone beeps. He ignores it and suddenly is standing, hands on hips. His chin is raised  and his eyes  - actually, now that Sherlock has met John’s eyes, he realises that he isn’t seeing the anger or challenge that he had been expecting. Instead he sees - what exactly? Curiosity? Affection? Acceptance? They have moved so far beyond being surprised or disappointed by the other’s behaviour that now John is simply giving him the opportunity to explain. Not to judge, just to hear what Sherlock has to say and see how they will cope with it. Together. 

It is the first time Sherlock has really, truly believed what he insisted to Mycroft; they are family now and will face everything side by side. Nothing will ever come between them again. Not even Sherlock himself. Especially not Sherlock himself.

“Go on, Sherlock. Tell me what? Or are you going to make me guess?” John grins “Is it for a case?” 

Sherlock is standing, staring at him, which does nothing to reduce the knot of tension building in John’s belly. He presses on, trying to diffuse the tension and dread that seeps over him.

“I’d say PB might be... Platinum Band? And DBoR could be,” he pauses, “Diamond Bracelet over Rubies. Or, how about, Prince Bogatoff and Designated Borough of Russia?”

Sherlock doesn’t know whether to laugh or pass out for the want of oxygen. Now that he has reached his decision, he is feeling decidedly light-headed. His heart is pounding in a disconcerting combination of excitement and blind terror. He knows exactly how badly wrong this can go. He spent an entire week once, back when John was living with Mary, constructing different scenarios in his Mind Palace of how John might react. He had extended the ramifications to at least four people removed. In one particularly melodramatic train of thought, Rosie had ended up being raised by Mycroft; the pair of them living in disguise in a crofter’s cottage on the Isle of Man.

And here they are. Irene is right. It is time to tell him. 

Sherlock has come so close, so many times. Most recently, that awful day when every inch of him had been wracked with pain from beatings and withdrawal and he had held John in his arms as John’s heart finally broke. He had come so close to leaning down and kissing his head, his neck, his lips. But John had been in too much agony and it had just not been  _ right _ .

That Irene is correct now, is almost as annoying as it is alarming. Sherlock takes a deep breath and tries not to panic.

“No, John. PB stands for ‘Posh Boy’.” 

Of all the possibilities running through John’s head, this had not occurred to him. He frowns in confusion. Sherlock, knowing that if he stops now he will never get this out, ploughs on.

“And DBoR is - well, it’s - ‘Doctor Bit of’ ...um ... ‘Rough’.” He stands and scrutinises John’s face as this information is processed.

“Ok. So, does that mean-? Well, clearly,  _ you’re  _ ‘Posh Boy’”

“Obviously,” nods Sherlock, encouragingly.

“Which would suggest that I am ... ‘Doctor Bit of Rough’?” His voice rises with incredulity.

Sherlock, refusing to blush and forcing himself to meet John’s eyes, nods mutely.

John’s eyes widen. No. Fuck, no. He hides his discomfort with indignation.

“Why would she think I’m a ‘bit of rough’? Bloody Cheek! I mean, I’m a doctor, for God’s sake, and an Army Officer. Hardly uneducated or, or...” John runs out of steam as he considers the more sexual implications of this label. Just as pieces start to click into place, Sherlock responds.

“It is not a title conferred upon you by Irene. I believe it is meant in juxtaposition to ‘Posh Boy’ and may have been the result of, well, ahem...” Sherlock finally looks away and down at his clasped hands, “something I said.”

John’s thoughts are brought up short. “Something you- sorry? Are you telling me that when you and Irene are having your little soirees, your secret meet-ups, you refer to me as ‘ _ Doctor Bit of Rough _ ’?”

“I thought I had clearly explained that Irene and I do not meet up and, most certainly, do not have  _ soirees _ . Do keep up, John. No. Awhile back, she and I may have discussed how I perceive our...” Sherlock waves his hand back and forwards between them, “relationship. And I may have confessed to certain … um ... urges that I have.” 

Unable to look at John, embarrassment floods every cell of Sherlock’s body. A voice in the back of his head is pleading with him to stop, to pretend he is joking. Better still, to gab his coat and run away. Yet, somehow, he can still hear himself talking.  

“Since then, she has insisted on referring to us as ‘Posh Boy’ and ‘Doctor Bit of Rough’.” Sherlock glances at John through his lashes, half expecting to see his retreating back.

John is stock still, barely breathing. He is staring at Sherlock, obviously working hard at keeping calm.

“Oh. I see.” He frowns.”Sorry, did you say you have … urges?” 

No turning back now, realises Sherlock, bracing himself for the barrage of protestations, accusations of lying, claims of misunderstandings. For a fleeting second he hopes John will not hit him again.

“Yes, John.”

There is no anger. Certainly no suggestion of violence. John is utterly calm and, to Sherlock’s astonishment, his mouth tips up at the right corner into a hint of a grin.

“Okay. Urges are fine. Urges are ... good. That's. It’s all fine.” John glances at his feet then, straightening his shoulders, lifts his head to look Sherlock straight in the eye. He is battle ready.. Wherever this takes them.

“And these urges would be?” 

Sherlock had not prepared for this reaction. Where are the thinly-worn protestations of straightness? Where is the frustration and anger he was bracing himself for? All the energy and fight drains out of him. Sherlock is done talking. He really has nothing else to say. 

Slowly, Sherlock steps forward, closing the gap between them. He gently places his hands on John’s shoulders, never taking his eyes from his best friend’s face. It’s fine, John said. It’s all fine.

Tentatively, Sherlock leans down. John’s wide eyes fix on his until Sherlock can no longer bear their intensity and closes his own. Their lips meet in a brush at first until Sherlock presses in, sliding his hand along John’s shoulder, easing it over the back of John’s neck and up until it rests reverently at the back of his head.

Sherlock is charting and recording, every microsecond; pressure levels of his lips, the warmth and softness of John’s skin and hair. Memorising and notating the contrast between the rough skin just above John’s top lip with the downy nape of his neck. The smell and taste of John, so close that Sherlock can record the scent of the pheromones from the base of John’s throat. This may not end well; he may be throwing away everything he holds most dear, but at this moment, Sherlock doesn’t care. He has waited,  _ wanted  _ for so very, very long that if this is it, his only chance to feel John’s lips on his, he will make sure he can remember every miniscule detail for the rest of his life.

His mind is so busy capturing this moment in his own mental amber, to be carried, treasured and protected for the rest of days, that Sherlock misses the small step John takes towards him. John’s right hand skims around Sherlock’s waist until it reaches the small of his back as John pulls Sherlock in tight to him.

The slip of John’s tongue, caresses first Sherlock’s bottom lip, then runs along the crease of his pursed lips until Sherlock parts them, brings Sherlock hurtling back to himself. John eases the very tip of that tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and, at the same time, presses his left hand between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and closes the final, tiny gap between their chests.

Sherlock gasps, his eyes flying open and pulls away. He’s dreaming? hallucinating? No, he’s high. Yes, he is still high and the last three months have been nothing but a coke-induced fantasy; time stretching out and contracting. That is the only possible, only  _ probable _ explanation. 

John is kissing him back!

Sherlock’s hands fly to his hair, pulling. He hears himself shout; a garbled, low, menacing sound that comes from deep within his chest. When will this ever end? When is he going to stop torturing himself with these fantasies? His brilliant mind is now wrapping around itself like a straight jacket, squeezing until it drives all the sanity out of him.

A pair of arms firmly wrap themselves around his waist and pull him close. A voice whispers, shushes and soothes. A face rests on his hot cheek, rough stubble digging in.

“It’s alright, Sherlock, it’s alright. Shush now, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to-, I thought. Come here, come here.”

The voice is John’s and the scent is John’s so Sherlock dares to open his eyes just a crack. He shivers when he sees John’s hair and forehead. 

“You- you’re kissing me?”

“Yes, I am. Although, technically, I think you are kissing me. I, well, I wanted to return your kiss. Was that wrong? Was that not what you wanted?”

“But I never thought you would. Why are you kissing me? You’re not, as you have never ceased to insist,  _ gay _ .” And why would you want to kiss me? Sherlock whispers inside his head.

“No, I’m not. Gay, I mean. I don’t think I would want this with any other man, but kissing you is definitely something I want to do.”

Sherlock steps back in confusion, trying to process his own conflicting thoughts. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he registers another beep from John’s phone. His mind, overwhelmed and unsure, grasps at that reality.

“You should get that.” Sherlock’s voice is shaky, uncertain. He steps away from John. Part of him is already detaching from John. Someone else needs John. Soon, John will be gone again.

John, not wanting to alarm Sherlock further, does as he insists. He reaches into his chair and picks up the phone, screen still lit up with the message notification. Before he reads it, he already knows what it is going to say.

**It’s time to tell him, John**

John pushes his hair back, and raises his eyes to a clearly upset Sherlock. He takes a deep breath and he gathers himself, straightening his shoulders. He offers the phone to Sherlock.

“No more secrets, Sherlock.”

She’s right. It is time to tell him.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My glorious beta, Breath4Soul has explained to me that 'bit of rough' is not an expression that Americans are familiar with. 
> 
> It's an old phrase but still used commonly enough east of the Atlantic. It probably has its roots in the British class system and refers to a person, of a lower class than yourself, with whom you are having a sexual dalliance. In more modern times though, it signifies someone who probably works with their hands and there is a sense of adventure and danger in the relationship, risking the disapproval of others.


	3. Darkest Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What’s the very worst thing you can do to your best friend? John wonders. Maybe, tell him your darkest secret? He’s about to find out.

What’s the very worst thing you can do to your best friend? John wonders. Maybe, tell him your darkest secret? He’s about to find out.

 

Sherlock Holmes has just kissed him. At last. At  _ bloody  _ last. No more secrets, he had said, and then there he was, in John’s arms, on his lips, in his  _ soul _ . For the first time in fucking years, John had been able to breathe out. 

John Watson had kissed him back. Of course he fucking had. Sherlock had clearly not been expecting him to, but who could blame him? He’s clever, a genius, but this he couldn’t have known, disguised in John’s absolute, unwavering ‘I’m not gay’. That, and his being married to a woman. 

John had always meant it. He’s not gay, he has never felt this way about another man, never longed for anyone, male or female, the way he has Sherlock. Or, at least, the way he had before the bloody idiot had thrown himself off a roof and gone and died. 

John had been shattered. Broken into tiny, aching smithereens, each part lost and disconnected from everything and everyone around him. The rest of the world had carried on and he had just stood on the edges and watched it pass him by. Everyone told him it would get better, easier, but it never did. One lonely day he had finally understood. Alone in his room, lying for hours staring at the mould creeping in at the edges of the ceiling in an old house that creaked with the footsteps of a ghost. John understood what he had lost. 

He hadn’t felt like this when his mother had died; he had grieved her and felt her loss but then he had got on with his life. Sherlock had just been his friend, hadn’t he? John had plenty of other friends. So why did he feel as if a chasm had opened up inside him, swallowing everything that made him John? Why did he struggle day after day just to keep going through the motions of eating, drinking, working? Why was there never any respite? No distraction? Why did it take until Sherlock was gone for him to realise that the man had fused with his soul and had taken it away with him?

Then, he got angry. Sherlock, who could see everything, had not seen this. Sherlock, who had looked at John that very first day they had met and seen him; seen the pain, the loss, the desperation. Clearly, he could not have seen this in John or Sherlock would never have left him. Sherlock, who knew everything, had not been able to see the truth staring him in the face and John found that unforgivable.

So, John had turned away from his grief to face the person who did want him. Mary worked very hard at making John love her. She coaxed and prodded him back into some pretence of living his life again. He hadn’t really seen her as a reason to go on; she had simply dragged him into her life and kept him there, day after day. Mary had taken care of him when he had no desire to do so himself. He had marshalled his feelings for Sherlock Holmes and interred them.

But Mary hadn’t been the only person to show him some kindness. 

John carefully lowers himself back into his chair. 

“I need you to sit down, Sherlock. Please. This isn’t going to be easy to get out and I need to know you’re listening to me. Don’t interrupt me or, so help me, I will get up and leave and we will never speak of this again. I won’t be making any apologies either, so don’t expect any.” John leans back into his chair. He never expected to be telling Sherlock this. He never wanted to tell anyone.

Sherlock, fear curling at the base of his brain, nods silently in understanding.

“When you were away - dead - I took it very… Well, very badly. More badly than I, or it seemed, anyone we knew, expected. I was inconsolable Sherlock.”

Sherlock starts to open his mouth on instinct, the apology automatically flitting to his lips. He halts it rapidly, governing his face to passivity.

“I had managed to go back to work. I could cope with two or three days a week. I was on autopilot, going through the motions. Then, one day, a patient came in. I didn’t look at her much beyond an initial glance and started enquiring what the problem was. She leaned forwards, left her hand on mine, ‘I miss him too, John’.”

John remembers how numb he had been that day. He hadn’t even been surprised to see her back from the dead. He hadn’t cared at all.

“It was Irene, Sherlock. She had come out of hiding to see me. She had heard I was not doing so well, disguised herself and came to see me. Later, I appreciated what a risk she had taken.”

He pauses, and Sherlock can see the memory of that kindness fleetingly warm on John’s face.

John pushes on. “We went for a walk. We chatted and had a coffee. We remembered you. Just as we were parting she leaned in and slipped her card into my top pocket, whispered ‘I know what you like, John. Always remember that. It might help.’ Then she left.”

Glancing at Sherlock, John can see that he is desperate to ask questions. Of course he is, this is Sherlock, but John needs to get through this. Every sordid bit of it.

“I kept her card. I put it in my box with my medals at the back of my underwear drawer. I would take it out and read it, then put it back again. I must have done that at least a dozen times over six months.” John shifts his gaze to the curtains behind Sherlock.

He can’t even look at me, Sherlock realises. He sees John’s face is steeled, determined to tell this story, but beneath it flits guilt, shame and finally, fear. 

John’s voice lowers and he is quieter. “Then one day, I called her.” Nothing different had happened, there had been no cataclysmic event, no break in his sadness. It was just another day.

“We met. Irene was very gentle with me, Sherlock. I had no idea why I was there, but Irene - well, she says she knows what men like and she did, that day. She seemed to know what I needed. We just kissed that day. She held my hand, wrapped her arms around me and stroked my hair. It was me that -” John stutters, voice breaking. “It was me that asked her to do it. I asked and she was able to do it for me.”

John lowers his face into his hands. Sherlock has no idea what John is saying. He knows, of course, that Irene is a dominatrix; a sex worker. In reality, he is not completely ignorant of sex but cannot guess what John is so apparently ashamed of. John Watson has never been embarrassed of his sexuality, of his desires and needs. 

John finally raises his face and looks Sherlock in the eye. He can see Sherlock’s uncertainty but also notes the absence of any signs of judgement.

No more secrets, John, he tells himself. Look what they have done to us all. No good has come from keeping a single one of those secrets; not Mary’s, not Mycroft’s, not his own. They have brought nothing but pain. If he and Sherlock are going to try this, have even the remotest chance of something new, Sherlock has to know this.

“I brought her one of your old coats, Sherlock. She would wear it. I would ask her to boss me around and then I would…. I would fuck her.” John barrels on. He has come this far, he needs to get it all out. “She would pretend to be you and I would fuck her.” John’s voice breaks and he collapses in on himself, head folding in towards his lap, hands clasped behind his head.

Sherlock’s brain whites out into complete nothingness. A millisecond later it reboots, thoughts, questions hurtling at him, bouncing off one another. He raises his hand to cover his mouth, more to keep silent than for any other reason. John cannot leave. Not now. Sherlock will not let him leave. He is desperate,  _ desperate _ to know more, but for once, just this once, Sherlock Holmes manages to stay silent.

John raises his head, still not able to look at Sherlock. He is transported back to that first time with Irene, the smell of Sherlock on the coat, the way she had wrapped herself around him. She had deepened her voice and crooned in his ear that she, no,  _ Sherlock _ , wanted him. Every time after that, things had become more and more elaborate. Irene was a professional; she invested in a wig, masculine but tailored suits, silk shirts and had even strapped down her breasts. She took it as a challenge. The only thing she had refused to change were her prized fingernails. The more like Sherlock she became, the greater John’s need had grown. She had been absolutely right. She knew what John liked.

After a long moment, John lifts his head. Sherlock is watching him and, just for a moment, John manages to meet his eyes.He sees Sherlock’s confusion but presses on.  “And then you came back.”

That awful, terrible night that Sherlock had apparated and stood in front of him, making a joke out of it all, making fun of him. In a fraction of a second John had looked at him and known, without a shred of doubt, that Sherlock did not feel the same way about him. All his pain and loss had coalesced, risen up, melded and burned bright in the furnace of this utter rejection and betrayal. Hardened and sharpened, it took on a new shape; fury. His fists lashed out, wanting only to bring Sherlock some echo of his own pain. Every time he hit Sherlock that night, the fury embedded more deeply, a hard, shiny layer encapsulating his desolation and heartbreak. Every day since he shoved his pain away, more and more forcefully. With each compression, it just became denser until the fury was diamond-hard, unbreakable.

“I never actually asked Mary to marry me; she took the ring from the box, slipped it on her own finger and began to plan a wedding. She charmed you, Sherlock, always kept you close.”.

John had tried to stay away, he really had. But Sherlock insinuated himself back into John’s life and the need to be near him, be with him, be close, was stronger even than the compacted fury.

“Mary and I got married. She fell pregnant. I kept seeing Irene.”

Each man sits in their respective chair and stares at the other. Sherlock is struggling to make sense of John’s confession and the single tear tracking down his friend’s face.

Panic rises in John’s chest. He wants to get out, to run, as far and as fast as he can from the cerulean eyes fixed on his. How far could he get? Where would he go? Part of him is already mentally packing and moving Rosie into Molly’s while he goes as far away from them all as he can, to cauterize the damage he has already done. Why is Sherlock saying nothing? Is he so shocked, so abhorred that he can’t even form words? His own words fly back to him, the insistence that Sherlock let him speak, the refusal to apologise. He meant it too, he’s not sorry, not sorry for the comfort he took, the emotional release it gave him for the need and longing for which there had been absolutely no outlet or hope. 

Or, at least, that was what he had always believed. 

“You can… Say something, Sherlock. Please. I’m…” John has absolutely no idea what he is.

Sherlock tries to put some sense, some order, into the thoughts spiralling inside his head. His palms are sweaty and he doesn’t seem able to draw in quite enough breath. Slowly, he asks. 

“So Irene was ‘Posh Boy’?  And you were ‘Doctor Bit of Rough’? She got the idea from you? Irene is beginning to make a lot more sense now.” Sherlock gives a wraith of a smile.

Whatever John had been expecting, this was not it. Recriminations, anger, distaste, yes, he was braced for all that. Humour? Not really. His panic subsides just a little.

“John. There are two things I need to understand. Well, actually, there are many, many things that I need to understand, but for the time being, these are the most pressing. The first is, while you and Irene were conducting your…” Sherlock struggles before settling on, “liaisons, what on earth could have transpired to give you the impression that she wished to have a relationship with  _ me _ ?”

A greedy heat surges through John, unbidden and destructive. His encounters with Irene had been complex; need, escape, sorrow, grief, jealousy and revenge all rolled together into frankly aggressive sex.

“She missed you. Told me so all the time. How much she had liked you and what a loss you were to her. I hated it. You were… were  _ mine! _ ”

Both men reel backwards at the ferocious declaration. John, unconsciously gets to his feet, ready to leave. Oh God, Oh God, he is making it worse! 

Sherlock cannot let him leave now. Under no circumstances can John Watson claim him as his own and then walk away. Sherlock starts to his feet, ready to head for the door, to block the way out.

“Together, John. We said we would face everything, together. Please. stay.” Hesitantly, Sherlock raises his hand, unsure of John’s reaction, not wanting to escalate John’s anxiety. John is not looking at him and Sherlock wants to comfort him, explain that even if he is struggling with these revelations, they are not enough to drive him away. They have come so far, so very far. So Sherlock steps forward and lays his hand on John’s forearm.

The touch both electrifies and calms John. He is struck by the realisation that he would have happily left Rosie behind as he fled, that he had absolutely no compunction in leaving her here with Sherlock. That he trusts Sherlock with his most precious of things. Maybe he can trust him with this?

“You had a second question?” John’s voice is so low Sherlock barely hears him.

Sherlock does have a question. A terrifying question. A question that could break his heart. Sherlock knows that there will be no going back from it, one way or another.

“When you were … with.. Irene.” he falters, looking at his feet, “was it because she was a woman or was it because you wanted...” His voice trails off, his courage finally escaping him.

How can they still be so bad at this? How is it that Sherlock still didn’t see how John felt about him, didn’t understand. John lays his right hand to cover Sherlock’s, lifts it to his lips and skirts the knuckles with the briefest of kisses.

“No, Sherlock, that was never it. She was just - it isn’t nice but it’s true - convenient. It was you I wanted to be with. Always you. I wasn’t fucking a woman being like you. I was fucking _you_.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that Irene is a Dominatrix and that many, but not all, do not engage in any physical contact with their clients, let alone full blown sex. In this instance, I have decided that Irene is a multi-talented sex worker, but it is entirely a business arrangement. Please do not think I am suggesting she was attracted to John. This Irene really is gay!


	4. Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh. John wants to fuck me. 
> 
> Does he really think I’m just going to let him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so concludes a fic that was inspired by just 2 words - 'Posh Boy'.
> 
> I am especially grateful to my beta Breath4Soul for her help with this chapter. Sometimes a beta picks out your spelling and punctuation mistakes, other times they read your mind and put it into the words you are failing to find. Breathy did that for me here. Go and read her latest work [Carrying You to Carry Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9807977/). You won't be sorry.

Oh. John wants to fuck me. Does he really think I’m just going to let him?

 

Do I want John to fuck me? Do I want to fuck John? That thought sends a sharp pang of arousal directly to his groin and he feels his cock start to fill. 

Oh. Well, that answers that question. 

What would fucking John be like? Sherlock is not a complete novice, although it has been some time since he was intimate with another person. Youthful experiences and conversations with Irene over the years have helped him to clarify his own inclinations. Since acknowledging his own desire for John, he has regularly and enthusiastically masturbated, developing more and more elaborate fantasies. He even has a special annex for them in his Mind Palace, tucked away from The Work so as not to distract him. 

Is it possible that some of these fantasies could become real? His cock thickens and stiffens forcing him to adjust his stance and create more room in his trousers. However-

All John sees is Sherlock holding his hand and staring at him. Oh, Jesus. I’ve broken him. All this talking, bloody openness and sharing  _ feelings _ always ends in disaster. I knew this was a bad idea and-

“Yes, John.”

John is brought up short, confused. Had he missed something? “Sorry, what?”

“Yes. I would be amenable to the fucking. Although, there is. I mean to say, We need to…”

John giggles and slides his arms around Sherlock’s waist. I’m not the only one who is shit at this.

“Of course, we need to discuss what we both like but can we enjoy this moment first? I would very much like to kiss you now.”

Sherlock would like to get to the kissing too but there is something he needs to say first, something very important to him. He may not be an expert on relationships but even Sherlock knows this is too big to ignore. He takes John by the shoulders and steps away slightly, only to be met with a surprised frown.

“I thought that was what...”

“John, I do wish to kiss you, but there is something I need to say. Something that we must establish. I believe it is what other people call ‘boundaries’. Never really felt the need for them myself, but, it would appear, this is different.”

John steps back, intrigued. Sherlock’s hand fall to his sides.

“I understand the nature of Irene’s relationship with her clients. I wish to make it very clear; I do not want you to hit me or, in anyway, hurt me.”

All the delight, joy and excitement drains from John to be replaced by surging guilt and shame. This man, this beautiful, extraordinary and courageous man thinks John would enjoy hurting him. And he has no one to blame but himself.

They have skirted around those awful few minutes in the morgue. John has hidden behind his self-asserted grief for Mary and used it as an excuse. He tried to aplogise once but Sherlock waved his words away. John had been relieved at the time, not wanting to have to confront what he had done or the feelings that lay below the veneer of blame and self-righteousness. 

“Oh, Sherlock. I’m so, so sorry that you think that of me and I would like to spend the rest of our lives making it up to you. I swear, on Rosie’s life, that I will never lay a hand on you in anger or violence ever again.”

Sherlock lifts a hand to brush the apology away. “It’s fine John, I-”

“No, Sherlock. It’s not fine! What I did was wrong. It was bad enough that I-, I.” John stammers truly having to confront his own behaviour that day for the first time. “What is worse is that I let you believe it was all your fault and that you deserved it. You didn’t. It wasn’t your fault and you didn’t deserve it.”

“But Mary. I let Mary die.”

“No! You didn’t. She made her  _ own  _ choice. She tried to outrun it but that end was always coming for her and you know what Sherlock?  _ She  _ deserved it. She was a murderer and she met the end she deserved. I was angry with you that day in the morgue. I was  _ fucking furious _ but it wasn’t because Mary had died, even if that’s what I said.”

Sherlock doesn’t understand and he  _ hates  _ not understanding. He shakes his head at John in frustration. The mood between them has changed, both men tense. They stand close, facing each other but not touching. The room has cooled, the fire nothing but embers in the grate and it is getting late.

John is not sure he has the words to say what needs to be said, but God help him, he is going to try. He has wanted this for so long, and he is damned if he’ll let this get away from them now. Captain John Watson squares his shoulders, straightens his chin and faces his greatest enemy; himself.

“Sherlock Holmes. I love you. I have loved you and been in love with you for years. I thought you had no interest in me and, so, I have hidden it and run away from it. When you left me and I thought you were dead it broke my heart. When you came back, I was so angry and hurt, it left a part of me twisted and frozen. That day, when I saw you, saw what you had done to yourself, I was terrified. Molly said you had only weeks left. I had no idea why you were doing it. All I knew was you were leaving me. Again.” John takes a deep breath, steadies his voice.

“Yet again I was not enough for you to stay and it was all my own fault. I had turned my back on you. I was not enough to keep you alive and I was furious; at you, at myself. I knew that day that if you died, I would have to follow you. I couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t watch from the sideline as you slowly killed yourself, Sherlock. I beat you to punish you for leaving me before and leaving me again. To punish myself for what I had done to us both.”

Tears track down John’s face as he burns alive again at the memory of the blind terror, how his buried anger had risen to the surface and scorched him, filled him with that ancient rage.

Sherlock takes a step forward and, once again, takes a weeping John in his arms. He holds John as the pain gathers and fills John, overflowing into Sherlock’s shoulder. When Sherlock senses the swell has peaked, and the tide is turning, he leans in and whispers.

“I love you too, John.”

John raises his blood-shot eyes to look into the steady, honest, ultramarine depths of Sherlock’s. Those words lift that long-held cold, hard fury buried in John Watson and warms it, transmuting it and it shatters into a million tiny glittering splinters, each one glowing and diffracting, filling him with light. 

John takes Sherlock’s arresting face gently in his hands and pulls him down into a blistering kiss, each man ignited with love and craving.

Sherlock slides his hands under John’s arse, half lifting him, as they wrap themselves tight against one another. John is biting at Sherlock’s neck, mouthing and groaning at finally,  _ finally  _ being able to touch and taste. He can feel Sherlock’s half erection pressed against his thigh and grinds against it, hard.

Sherlock needs to consume John. To wrap himself totally around John and never let him escape. He chases John’s mouth with his own, craving the hot slide of tongues as he forcefully fill’s John’s mouth with his own. It’s not enough and he has to feel John, all of him. 

Letting go of John’s backside, he slides his hands over John’s chest seeking skin and heat. His hands fumble with the top button of John’s shirt but he is shaking and it’s too slow. Sliding his hands down to the middle of the shirt, Sherlock yanks hard, buttons scattering in all directions and pulls the shirt roughly off John’s shoulders and halfway down his biceps.

John groans, loud and harsh as Sherlock’s hands smooth and stroke his chest and back. The taller man is pushing him down now, onto the their rug, their living room floor, one hand under his back, one pressing insistently on his shoulder. 

“These too,” John pants, as Sherlock lowers him onto his back on the floor, offering up the still buttoned cuffs. Sherlock considers for a moment before kneeling over John and taking the left wrist in his hands. He slips his fingers in under the cuff and holds John’s gaze as he rips, hard, opening the cuffs. John’s groin presses up involuntarily, his erection bursting in his jeans, desperate for touch. Sherlock feels the movement and deliberately shifts backwards away from John’s hard cock. He keeps his eyes pinned to John as he slowly reaches for the other wrist, then rips off that cuff button too. 

The groan this produces in John is so loud that Sherlock instinctively places a hand over his mouth, pressing down. “Shhh, you’ll wake Rosie,” he growls, deep and threateningly, in John’s ear.

Sherlock sits back and carefully removes his own shirt, looking down at the man spread between his thighs. John tries to sit up but Sherlock places a firm hand to the middle of John’s chest and pushes him flat. His hands move to the waistband of John’s trousers and he stokes the darker, thicker hair there. He has fantasised about this so often, about seeing John’s cock full and flushed for him. Sherlock indulges himself and takes his time as John squirms beneath him, hands stroking and gripping Sherlock’s clothed thighs that are pinning him down.

Sherlock opens John’s belt buckle slowly, eases open the button and traces a finger down the length of John’s very hard cock through his jeans. John’s eyes snap shut and he forces his hips up into the touch. Slowly, Sherlock lowers the zip and then reaches in through John’s boxer shorts. The first touch of Sherlock’s hand on his engorged dick makes John buck and keen as Sherlock takes him out and leaves him, half dressed and exposed.

Sherlock sits back and gorges on the sight laid out before him. He takes in the flush of John’s face and chest, the tremble of his thighs and the glory of John’s pulsing erection. There are no thoughts, no ideas, just this surging, consuming urge to have and take and  _ own _ John. The sudden realisation that Irene has seen this, had this, fills him with jealousy. Then a pang of uncertainty courses through him.

“What did she do?” Sherlock draws a single finger slowly down John’s chest, down between his pectoral muscles, pausing just millimeters from the head of John’s aching cock. “What did she do to you that made you think she was me?”

John arches up, desperate for his touch. “She- she. Fuck, Sherlock, what does it matter?” He digs his fingers into Sherlock’s thighs trying to drag the man down to where he can reach him, kiss him. If Sherlock doesn’t touch him soon there is a very good chance he might come like this, into thin air as Sherlock watches.

“It matters to me,” snarls Sherlock. “She had you, turned you on and I, I…”

“She didn’t turn me on.” John strains up, trying to make contact with that single, elegant finger. “You did. I would close my eyes and imagine you; your smell, your strength pinning me down, your voice in my ear. God help me, your hands. You. This.” He struggles underneath Sherlock’s thighs, trying to sit up, to comfort, to explain.

Sherlock catches him tightly by the wrists and forces them up above John’s head, pinning him to the floor. John groans as the heat and pressure of Sherlock presses into his needy cock. Sherlock’s eyes are dark and desperate.

“You don’t understand! I need to erase the memory of her from you. I need to take every memory you have ever had of all your pointless women and replace them with me until, when you think about sex, all you can think of is me. I need to know how to make you groan and tremble, how to render you unable to speak or even think. From this moment on I am your past, your future, your everything. You are mine, John Hamish Watson and I will burn this world down to ashes before I let anyone have you again.”

John is transfixed, pinned by those eyes. The silence envelopes them. Sherlock hears John draw in the breath.

“Fuuuuuuuuuck”. The whine that escapes John’s mouth is pure, heated, animalistic lust and he bucks up into Sherlock, eyes wide, pupils blown. 

When John is finally able to speak, his voice is cut, broken. “That, Sherlock. That. Just. You.”

In that moment, the damage of the last few months is healed; the self-doubting, desperate Sherlock Holmes, undermined and lied to, betrayed and abandoned, is gone. A new man is crystallised in the heat of John’s lust and love.

Sherlock slowly leans down, reaching for John’s ear, his stomach rubbing against John’s leaking cock. He slips into this persona of dominance as easily as his Belstaff coat; it’s as natural as deducing. 

“You, John Watson, are nothing but a cheap, dirty bit of rough. Look at the state of you.” Sherlock whispers right next to John’s ear, voice deep and taciturn. “My bit of rough. All mine. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes Sherlock, God, yes. Your’s. Always been yours.”

“No, no, no. Not Sherlock. What do you call me?”

John opens his eye’s wide, not sure if he fully understands Sherlock’s meaning. 

“Let me make this very clear, Doctor. You -” Sherlock runs his long index finger up the length of John’s cock, squeezing the head gently to make sure he has John’s full attention, “You are  _ my  _ bit of rough and I am your...?”

John shakes his head slightly in disbelief before tentatively answering, “My Posh Boy?”

“Correct. I am your Posh Boy and shall use you as I see fit. Do you understand?”

“Hmmmnn,” whines John.

“No. That will not do. Enunciate my dear  _ Captain _ .” Sherlock drawls the last word, sarcastically.

John gathers himself as much as he can with Sherlock still gently teasing the head of his cock, the very tips of those long fingers stroking him slowly.

“Ye...Yes. I... ah.. I understand.” he gasps.

Sherlock places his hands on John’s hips and holds tight to the top of his jeans, starting to push them down his hips.

“Good, because this is going be slightly different. You are not with a woman this time. As good as Irene is, and I am sure she is  _ very  _ good, I have something she does not. So this time, this time, Posh Boy is going. To. Fuck. You.”

Something within John opens up, blooms and lets go. Something he had not fully realised was there, a desperate, unmet, need. Sherlock sees it, sees him, just as he always has and Sherlock is the answer. Sherlock will always be the answer.

“Yes, yes. Please, please.”

“Please what?” demands Sherlock.

“Please, Posh Boy. My wonderful, darling Posh Boy. Please, fuck me.”

Sherlock nearly collapses at the sight and sound of John beneath him, begging. He roughly pulls John’s jeans all the way down and stands, towering over him.

“Open your eyes.”

John does as commanded. “Run your hands down over your cock, feel your balls. Yes, good, like that. Now I want to see you finger yourself. Have you done that before?” John nods. 

“Tell me.”

“I… with Irene, sometimes she would use a dildo on me.” John pants.

Privately, Sherlock is relieved. He doesn't have a huge amount of experience in this. John looks up at Sherlock standing over him, licks his middle finger, places his feet flat on the floor and slides just the tip into his own hole. The noise John produces nearly brings Sherlock to his knees; to take John in his mouth. Sherlock pushes hard against his own straining erection, head thrown back as he rubs. He needs to get this under control before he makes himself come and he so easily could, just watching John spread out like this for him. He gathers his enormous self-control around him once more.

“Good boy. Keep that up,” and walks away.

John tips his head back to watch Sherlock prowl to his own bedroom and realises what he has gone to get. The thought fills John with a new surge of need and he closes his eyes and pushes his finger in a fraction deeper. 

Sherlock returns with lube and a condom. He takes his place standing at John’s feet once more and watches. John, like the shameless dirty bit of rough he is, spreads his legs wider so Sherlock can get a better view. 

The sight is the undoing of Sherlock. He rapidly unzips his own tight trousers, ruined now by the copious amount of pre-ejaculate that has leaked on them and removes them and his underwear. He lowers himself down carefully and squeezes lube all over his hand. Now beside John, they kiss and kiss as Sherlock replaces John’s hand with his own, first one slender finger then two, sliding further and further into the heat of John’s body.

“May..I” pants John. “May I touch you, Posh Boy?” John begs, and Sherlock considers refusing him but decides to save that for another time. He is desperate for John to touch him now and cannot help but groan as John holds him and strokes his chest, his arms, his neck. 

“So beautiful, exquisite,” John croons. “Perfect.” As Sherlock eases a third finger into him and finally seeks John’s prostate, brushing against it just once before again retreating.

Sherlock cannot hold out much longer. “I want you,” he growls into John’s ear. “Are you ready for me?” 

John can barely speak but opens his eyes. They lock gazes and suddenly the delicious game falls away and they are just John and Sherlock once more. The moment lasts for a long second before John nods and Sherlock removes his hand and puts on the condom and a generous amount of lube. He cannot be sure of what he did when he was high and has his doubts about Mary and what she may have passed to John. They need to have that conversation another time, but for now, they will use a condom. Sherlock hesitates, unsure for a moment. John, sensing the pause opens his eyes again, and then his arms. 

Sherlock moves on top of John and watches his face closely as he nudges at John’s wide-stretched entrance. It has been a long time since he has done this and never with someone who truly loved him, accepted and wanted every part of his difficult, complex self. 

All pretence slips away and John wraps his arms tightly around Sherlock. “Please Sherlock. Please, I’m yours.”

Sherlock slides slowly inside, gasping at the heat and tightness. “Oh, fuck, John. It’s so.. Oh!” He begins,carefully, to move, never taking his eyes from John’s. John’s cock is held between their bellies and he arches up, wanting Sherlock as deep within as he can get and needing the friction. Then he practically lifts off the floor as the change in position forces Sherlock up against his prostate.

Sherlock is lost. Lost in his love for this deeply flawed, damaged, scarred man. The man that saved Sherlock from the world and himself. He thrusts faster and faster, watching to see if John is close. John tenses and holds and Sherlock can feel the ejaculate on his skin at the same moment as he hears the sound from deep within John, a single long cry curling out and filling the room. That sound is enough and Sherlock comes hard, his own voice mixing with John’s, his head buried in John’s neck as he mouths, “I love you, I love you,” into his sweaty skin.

 

 

Somewhere in an exclusive house, in an expensive London suburb, Irene Adler turns off the radio receiver. She knows she really should have stopped listening at least half an hour ago, but she has never claimed to be a good woman. The listening device had been easily procured; after all, she knows a man and she knows what he likes. Slipped into the pocket of an old Belstaff coat and well hidden under a sofa, she had known the time was finally perfect for a little meddling.

Her phone pings and she smiles as she reads it. She quickly texts back.

**You’re welcome, darling. That’s what friends are for.**

And goes in search of her gorgeous wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Rosie for having been so good and staying asleep all the way through this. I'm sorry about the shouting, both Breath4Soul and I were worried about you. 
> 
> I already have an idea for a sequel, along the lines of "The Adventures of Posh Boy and his Doctor Bit of Rough". Let me know in the comments if that is something you would like to read


End file.
